Blog Post 2: What True Faith Looks Like in the Darkness

Part 2 of the "When Grief Meets Hope" series

The collect for Saint Bartholomew's Day speaks of God giving him "grace truly to believe." As I've wrestled with what this means, especially in the context of grief and loss, I've realized we often misunderstand what "true belief" actually looks like during our darkest moments.

Faith Isn't About Pretending

Let me be absolutely clear about something: true belief in times of grief doesn't mean pretending everything is fine. It doesn't mean suppressing your tears, putting on a brave face for others, or forcing yourself to feel grateful when your world has collapsed.

If you've been told that "real faith" means staying positive or that questioning God shows weakness, someone has given you bad theology. True belief in the midst of suffering often looks much messier than that.

The Rawness of Real Faith

True faith means wrestling with God, not avoiding him. It means bringing your anger, your questions, your despair directly to the throne of grace. The Psalms are full of people doing exactly this kind of wrestling.

"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" These aren't the words of someone with weak faith—they're the words of someone with raw, honest faith. Someone who believes God is big enough to handle their pain, their confusion, their anger.

King David, described as a man after God's own heart, regularly brought his complaints directly to God. He didn't sanitize his prayers or dress up his feelings in religious language. He showed up exactly as he was—broken, angry, confused, desperate—and called it worship.

Holding Two Truths Simultaneously

The mature faith that grief can teach us involves holding two seemingly contradictory truths at the same time:

• This hurts terribly, AND God is still good

• This feels impossible, AND God is still working

• I can't see the way forward, AND God still has a plan

• I feel abandoned, AND I am held by everlasting arms

This tension isn't a failure of faith—it's the sophisticated faith of people who refuse to let go of God even when they can't understand him. It's the faith of those who choose to believe in the character of God even when his ways are mysterious.

Beyond What We Can See

The book of Hebrews speaks of a reality beyond what we can currently see: "You have come to Mount Zion, to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to innumerable angels in festal gathering, and to the assembly of the firstborn who are enrolled in heaven."

When you're drowning in grief, talk of heavenly celebrations can feel almost offensive. A party? Angels rejoicing? It can seem tone-deaf to your current reality.

But this passage isn't asking you to pretend you're happy. It's inviting you to believe that your current pain isn't the whole story. It's saying there's a larger reality at work—one where those you've lost aren't truly lost, where brokenness is being healed, where every tear will ultimately be wiped away.

Faith as a Choice, Not a Feeling

Here's what I've learned about faith in grief: it's not primarily an emotion, it's a decision. It's the choice to keep believing in God's goodness even when you can't feel it. It's the decision to keep praying even when the prayers feel like they're bouncing off the ceiling. It's the commitment to keep showing up even when showing up is the hardest thing you've ever done.

Some days, faith might feel like hanging onto God by your fingernails. Other days, it might feel like you're not hanging on at all—like God is carrying you when you don't even have the strength to hold on. Both are valid expressions of faith in difficult times.

If you're in the midst of grief and struggling with faith, know this: your questions don't disqualify you. Your anger doesn't alarm God. Your doubts don't derail his plans for your life. Sometimes the most faithful thing you can do is keep breathing, keep getting up, keep putting one foot in front of the other.

That's enough. In the darkness, that's more than enough. That's the grace truly to believe.